


This Time Of Dying

by ImpishTubist



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Molestation, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-22
Updated: 2011-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian Bashir runs into Lore on DS9 and believes him to be Data. Lore doesn't see any reason to correct him; not immediately, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Time Of Dying

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Dark Fest over on LJ.
> 
> Timeline: Takes place after season 7 of TNG and ignores the ending of "Descent" - or, at least, the assumption that Lore was never reactivated after that episode.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own them.

Garak is the one who cancels on him for lunch that day, and some part of Bashir realizes that it is only fair. He has been canceling on his friend more frequently than is considered polite in the past month. It has always been for medical emergencies, and Garak understands that - Bashir will not allow himself to think that perhaps the Cardassian’s cancellation is a way to get back at him. No. Garak is subtle, but hardly petty. 

He tries other members of the senior staff, but Miles is off-duty and asleep and Jadzia is at work in Ops. He even calls two of his off-duty nurses, whom he rarely sees outside of Sickbay but, for some reason, today he can barely stand the thought of lunch alone. It’s been a trying week - hell, it’s been a trying year - and the last thing he wants is to be alone with his thoughts. That’s the kind of lunch hour he resigns himself to, however, when the nurses decline as well. The Replimat is far from crowded, unusual for the hour, and thus there are few distractions. A young couple three tables away is in the midst of an argument they have been having for three months now - Garak finds their persistence fascinating - and four other crewmen sit alone, PADDs in hand, reading or writing reports. 

Suppressing a sigh, Bashir quickly digs into his rapidly-cooling meal. He recalls a conversation  he and Garak had some time ago about the speed at which humans devour their meals, which is far too fast for the Cardassian’s liking. He accused the doctor of not taking the time to enjoy his food, of treating it as something that might escape before he has the chance to consume it. 

More likely, _he’s_ the one trying to escape; trying to avoid the crush of _ifs_ that swarm his brain the moment it isn’t occupied with a task, but he never had the heart to tell that to his friend and accepted the criticism without much argument. It’s a conversation Garak would love to have, analyzing him, and Bashir just doesn’t have the capacity to deal with it. Not yet, and probably not ever. 

There is a rustle of fabric behind him as someone tries to squeeze between his chair and an adjacent table. Bashir moves with a mumbled, “Sorry,” and the uniformed man slips past with a nod of thanks. 

Bashir blinks. 

“Data?” he asks incredulously. His gaze has only caught the side of the man’s face, but he’d know that profile - and that pallor - anywhere. 

Data stops and turns, pinning Bashir with his unblinking yellow eyes. There is a fraction of a second where he scans his memory files, and then his mouth quirks in a facsimile of a smile as recognition spreads across his features. It is rather like watching a human, and Bashir wonders whether it was all a show for him. Data knows he is fascinated by how utterly human-like Soong made him. 

“Doctor Bashir,” he greets, holding out a hand. “It is good to see you.”

“And you as well, Commander.” Bashir is grinning wildly, though he cannot for the life of him figure out why. He has only met this being once before. “What brings you to DS9?”

Bashir is sure he imagines that shadow that seems to cloud Data’s features for a second. He blinks, and Data looks as impassive as ever. 

“That is a long story.”

“I have a long lunch.” Bashir gestures to the open chair. “Please, join me.”

There is a moment when Bashir thinks he will refuse - _Please, for god’s sake, don’t walk away_ \- but then the android nods and says, “Of course.”

He orders soup from the replicator - “You can _eat,_ too?” - and they slowly begin to fill in the year and  a half that has passed since their last meeting. Bashir almost feels like he’s one-upping Data each time and scales back some of his stories, even though he knows the android won’t - and can’t - care. Life is difficult on the frontier, especially with the emergence of the Dominion in recent months. But then Data gets to why he is on DS9 instead of _Enterprise_ , and all Bashir’s stories are blown out of the water. 

“He forced you to torture your best friend?” Bashir knows he is gaping and that it looks ridiculous, but the story warrants nothing less. It is an unbelievable account, and he cannot fathom why this is the first he is hearing of it. 

_  
I must be putting too many hours in the Infirmary.   
_

Data nods, and adds, “Among other things. Captain Picard thought some time away would be beneficial. Counselor Troi agreed, though I presume that has more to do with Lore’s abuse of her than true concern over my well-being.”

He says this lightly and matter-of-factly, without a hint of malice towards the counselor, but Bashir aches for him anyway. He feels anger for the crew who abandoned their colleague due to events beyond his control, and can’t help but wonder if the same would have been done for a human. Would he be dumped on some outpost for three weeks, without medical or emotional support?

Not bloody likely. 

Bashir knocks back the remainder of his drink, pushes back his chair, and stands. 

“Come, Commander. I’ll give you a tour.”

~~~

They chat only when Data is curious about something, and Bashir quickly discovers that the android is curious about, well, everything. He also finds that he is wholly inadequate at explaining the intricacies of the station and its systems, and makes a mental note to do the tour over when O’Brien is next free. It is a relief when they come to the Infirmary, and Bashir spends nearly an hour trying to make up for his ineptitude by showing Data every piece of equipment and programming that he can think of. They even spend time looking over some of Bashir’s experiments. Data gives him some tips, for which he is eternally grateful. Even with his mind, it would have taken him weeks to work out exactly why the _Piok_ plants keep dying seventy-eight hours after he acquires them. 

“And here is where - oh, hello, Garak.”

He is used to the tailor sneaking up on him, which the man seems to do whether he intends it or not. The Cardassian has been better about it in recent months - especially after the Flaming Kabob Incident - but seven times out of ten he still enters the room unannounced when Bashir’s back is turned. The only reason Bashir catches him this time is because of Data, whose gaze flicks from the doctor to a spot just over his shoulder. 

“Doctor,” Garak greets pleasantly. “I was just bringing your uniform. Mended to perfection; I am sure you will not have any complaints with it.” He hands Bashir a package and the man thanks him; then he turns to Data. Bashir can see that his eyes have narrowed slightly and wonders - briefly, madly - if he is jealous. “Are you going to introduce me to your guest?”

“Ah, yes. Garak, this is Lieutenant Commander Data, of the _Enterprise_ ,” Bashir tells him. “He’s on the station for a bit of R&R.”

He can see that the name registers with Garak, who forgoes the customary handshake for a simple nod, which Data returns. He then turns to Bashir and strikes up a brief conversation about a book he lent him some time ago, carefully maneuvering himself so that he is standing between Data and the doctor, ignoring the former and beaming at the latter. To the outside observer the two men are discussing a book, but Garak is never casual with his words and they both know that literature has never been the subject of the conversation. Garak is telling him how much he disapproves of the good doctor spending time with the artificial life form, and Bashir is telling him in turn to kindly fuck off, thank you very much. 

“I do hope you won’t forget our lunch tomorrow, Doctor,” Garak says just before he leaves, ending the book discussion as abruptly as it had started. “I don’t need to remind you that the reservation is for two and it is _notoriously_ difficult to change on such short notice. Good day.”

Bashir gapes after him; he is unused to Garak being so...well, so blatantly _rude_. “I am sorry, Commander,” he says immediately, flustered. “You will have to forgive his rudeness. I’m - I’m not quite sure what has gotten into him but -” He breaks off when Data holds up a hand.

“There is no need, Doctor. As it happens, I intend to spend tomorrow on Bajor. Besides, I do not intend to force you to -” he pauses, searching for an appropriate phrase, “ - babysit me while I am aboard the station. My appearance here is unexpected, and it is not your duty to watch over me. I am pleased, however, that we ran into each other.”

“As am I, Commander,” Bashir replies quietly. 

~~~

Things proceed normally for the next few days - or as close to normal as Bashir can ever hope to achieve. His lunches resume with Garak, who is genuinely pleasant and no longer oozing false charm and biting words that sail right over Data’s head. It takes two lunches for Bashir to work up the courage to ask him what exactly had irked him that day, and Garak’s answer - “My dear doctor, I simply didn’t trust him. I cannot see why you do.” - is given in a tone surprisingly devoid of conspiracy and intrigue. He sounds genuinely concerned, and Bashir realizes that this is not another one of his games. But he lets the matter slide, for Garak no longer seems to care that he has been spending his off-duty hours with the android and, even if he does, Bashir is not about to let the man’s - was _xenophobia_ the right word? - get in the way of a growing friendship. 

It’s when Data shows up at his door at the end of his first week on the station with _Krelana_  roots - “Keiko has informed me that these are a customary Bajoran meal.” - that Bashir begins to suspect he is getting in over his head. There is a small kitchen in his quarters that is rarely used, as most of his meals come from the replicator if they come at all, and they cram themselves into the tiny space. Arms brush and elbows jostle, and Bashir tries to ignore the fact that he’s standing at the counter slicing vegetables while Data, his back turned, is preparing the main course per Keiko’s precise instructions, their backsides just millimeters apart. And then Data shifts his weight - _so human_ \- and accidentally bumps against Bashir in the process. Or perhaps not so accidentally; the touch lingers for a few seconds, too brief for Bashir’s liking but, when he thinks about it, it’s an eternity for Data. His face reddens and his hands shake and he tries to ignore the tingling jolt that shoots directly to his - 

“Shit!”

Data turns abruptly and peers over the doctor’s shoulder, which doesn’t do much to help the situation because now they are pressed together, back to front, and Bashir is caught between the android and the counter and _dammit_ , his hand is bleeding. “Are you injured?”

“No. I mean, yes, a bit, but it’s -” Bashir turns and realizes, no, _this_ was the really bad move. If pressed back to front was Not Good, then chests to thighs to groins was Very Not Good. “ - not that bad,” he finishes weakly. 

Data takes his hand and examines the cut, which is far from deep but still is bleeding rather profusely. The blood drips languidly off Bashir’s fingers, and when Data takes his hand it smears and stands out sharply against the too-pale skin. The android raises Bashir’s hand to his face - _oh god_ \- and sucks at the cut calmly, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. Bashir suppresses a groan and leans heavily against the counter; his knees have gone hopelessly weak and he feels as though he is back at the Academy, trying to seduce a cute young cadet and hardly believing his luck because it’s _actually_ working.

“What -” he breathes, “-what was that for? Does it help the bleeding?”

Data’s eyes flick to his face and he pulls the injured hand away from his mouth. “No,” he says calmly. He looks back down at the injury, holding Bashir’s hand gingerly in both of his. The bleeding has slowed of its own accord, and Bashir knows he should wrap the hand, clean their uniforms, and try to salvage what little of the vegetables are left that aren’t contaminated with blood, but he is frozen on the spot. He can hardly bring himself to look away, and decides it’s best for Data to make the first move. 

The android rubs his thumb across the cut, over the caked blood and drying saliva; then, in a quick movement, he seizes Bashir’s finger between his thumb and forefinger and snaps the bone cleanly in two. 

“Sorry, Doctor,” he says as Bashir, his legs wobbly to begin with, lets out a choked gasp and collapses in unexpected agony. He catches the doctor and slings him easily over his shoulder; walking into the other room, he deposits the man roughly on the couch and barks an order to the computer that seals the doors. 

“What - ” Bashir stammers. 

“Your security codes are surprisingly elementary; I was able to decipher them my first day on the station.” Data is prowling the living room purposefully, rooting behind cushions and pillows and rifling through Bashir’s desk. He surfaces with the two weapons a long-ago paranoid Bashir had hidden in different areas of the room, and places them on the desk. “As for your finger - I do apologize, Bashir, but I was getting rather _bored_.” He flashes a broad grin, alien and outlandish on the pale face. “Not so much now, though, and I have you to thank for it.”

He strides over to the couch before Bashir can reply and applies pressure to the spot where the doctor’s shoulder curves into his neck, and the world abruptly fades. 

~~~

Bashir wakes upright in a chair, mind in a haze, and for a moment he can convince himself that he simply nodded off and it was all a strange dream. But he notices the restraints a moment before a smooth voice says, “Interesting,” and realizes that it has all been painfully real. 

“I was expecting you to be unconscious for some ten minutes more,” a voice tells him, and it is the intruder with Data’s touch and a stranger’s voice.    
He is straddling a chair nearby and has abandoned the gold uniform in favor of a darker, tighter fitting one. 

Bashir knows his suspicions are correct, but he still cannot help muttering, “You’re Lore.” He knows, now, that he had signed his own death warrant the moment he invited the man to lunch with him. The realization does not hit him with the intensity that he thought it would. 

 “Oh, very clever. I can see you’ve been putting that genetically enhanced mind of yours to good use.” Lore drapes his forearms across the back of the chair and leans, an alien smile touching his lips.

Bashir glides over the fact that no one is supposed to know of his enhancements and instead says, “What is it you want with me?”

Lore glances at him, amusement playing across his face. “You’re a fool to think yourself so important, Doctor. No, I have no _need_ for you. I might have even left you alone, had you stopped your mindless babble for more than twenty seconds. But my mission is taking longer than expected and I find the wait has become rather _monotonous_.” He stretches out a long finger and trails it down the side of Bashir’s cheek. The doctor shudders. “It appears you and I shall have to make our own amusement.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Lore gets up to pace, and Bashir notices that at some point the android has toed off his shoes and his feet, like the rest of him, are clad in black. Curious, an android bothering to wear socks. He wonders for a moment whether Data does as well “Hmm, yes. Suffice it to say I have some business aboard the station; business, it turns out, that is easier with you incapacitated.”

“I see,” Bashir acknowledges, trying the restraints. His arms have been bound behind his back and his feet are secured together at the ankles. Simple, but effective; Bashir wonders how many beings the android has bound in this fashion. Unsurprisingly, he finds that the ropes, though primitive, are flawless. He would have been disappointed, really, to discover them to be anything less. “You’ve gotten this far unmolested, and I think I deserve an explanation.”

 “Really, Doctor, anger doesn’t suit you.” Lore  reaches out a finger and traces the lines that crease Bashir’s face. The doctor holds back the temptation to bite his finger off, but only just. “There’s a certain ambassador due to arrive on this station sometime in the next week or so; I’m to ensure that he never leaves. Running into you was good fortune, really. I can stage the death as an accident or suicide - even as murder by another’s hand, if the situation warrants. A normal doctor will look at my work and never think of it as anything other than what I want him to believe. You, however, are _far_ from normal. I’m honestly not sure that I could have slipped under your radar long enough to make it off the station.” He leans down, and his lips brush the shell of Bashir’s ear. “You can consider that a compliment.”

“And Data?” Bashir rasps.

Lore pauses for a moment, considering, and then says, “On leave; that much was true. He’s on Atrea IV.” 

“You are quite convincing as him.” Bashir means it to sound biting, but it comes off as half-admiring. Lore snorts and rolls his eyes.

“I downloaded his personal logs and memory files last time we had an encounter. It was absurdly simple.”

“This job must be important for you to go through all that effort,” Bashir mutters, more for his own benefit than that of the android. He does not keep up with the comings and goings of people on Deep Space Nine as much as a member of the senior staff should, but then, he _is_ only the doctor. Needless to say, he is regretting that oversight now. “Though I imagine that if someone that important were coming aboard the station, Captain Sisko would have informed us.”

Lore is watching him, a smirk playing across his face, and Bashir swallows the rest of his thought before it has a chance to escape his lips. He is making a fool of himself. “How much are they paying you?” he asks instead. 

“The end result is worth having to spend three weeks as my highly _unappealing_ look-alike.” Lore has a way of answering questions that tells the listener nothing at all, and Bashir is strongly reminded of Garak. He frowns and mentally shakes the image of the Cardassian from his mind; he cannot afford to be distracted now. 

“How so?”

Lore waves a hand. “So many questions, Doctor. Do you ever tire of it, living life locked up in that miniscule mind of yours?” He leans close suddenly, too close for Bashir’s comfort. Their noses are centimeters apart. “I will leave you with this, however: what use do you think I could _possibly_ have for money?” He straightens abruptly and makes for the computer terminal. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some false sensor data to plant in the computer core.”

Silence reigns for several moments and Bashir works hard not to stare at the intruder in his chair. His hands dance seamlessly across the console, becoming a blur, and his golden eyes dart rapidly across the screen. 

 “You’re supposed to be at Daystrom,” Bashir says when he can stand the silence no longer.

Lore makes a deprecating noise in the back of his throat, though his eyes do not leave the screen. “You have an irritating inability to remain quiet, Doctor.” He pauses. “I took my leave of Daystrom some weeks ago. It had gotten quite –“ He trails off, waving a hand.

“Tedious,” Bashir supplies automatically, and Lore raises an eyebrow in amusement. Bashir bites his tongue, hard – _stupid!_ – to prevent any other words slipping from his mouth. He can see the thought before Lore has a chance to voice it, and quickly adds, “I’m not like you.”

Lore says nothing in return. He abandons – or perhaps has finished – his work and strides over to the chair. 

“What are you doing?” Bashir asks, and hopes the panic he feels does not come through in his voice; the android is standing behind him, mostly out of his line of sight even if he cranes his neck. All he can see is his own shoulder, and one of Lore’s long legs. He is tapping one toe to a seemingly random rhythm, though Bashir knows there is nothing random about the android. 

“How dull must it be, living among these humans?” Lore whispers, lips brushing Bashir’s ear. The doctor suppresses a shudder as hot breath grazes his skin. 

“I _am_ human,” Bashir says, surprised to find that his voice is calm. There is a faint brush of fabric as Lore moved his arm, and then suddenly cold is gripping his fingers.

“Don’t!” Bashir gasps a moment before a wave of nausea crashes over him as Lore calmly crushes two of his fingers with little more than a squeeze of his own. A strangled noise escapes from the doctor’s lips as he wrenches his hands away from the android, straining against the ropes. Bile wells in the back of his throat and he heaves, leaning into the ropes that bind his chest. Liquid was gushing over his hands now – _gods_ , were his fingers even still attached? 

“Let’s try that again,” Lore purrs. He stands and comes around to the front of the chair, wiping his hands on a dark rag procured from his back pocket. They were stained bright red. “Doesn’t it get dull, living with these people?”

Bashir knows he will remember the fingers best; those fingers, achingly beautiful and deceptive all at once, more human in appearance than even his own and deadly as any weapon. They run over his face, tracing it from temple to jaw line, and then slip down his neck to caress the flesh there with feather-light strokes. “Interesting,” Lore says as he continues his ministrations, slipping ever lower, and Bashir decides that he does not want to know what the android has found so intriguing. 

Lore moves his fingers down the bare chest, marking every rib, memorizing in a glance each imperfection. He circles the navel with his thumb once, twice, three times, and watches the shudder that passes over the human’s face; watches the eyes darken and the breath hitch. He brings his hand to rest just above Bashir’s hip, fingers splayed across the caramel skin, and smiles chillingly.

“Answer me, Doctor,” he says.

“No,” Bashir says stupidly. “No, never.”

Lore sighs, says, “I do _so_ despise liars,” and plunges his hand into Bashir’s side. His fingers tear through the weak flesh like so many knives and he buries each one deep inside Bashir, stopping only when he reaches the knuckle. A spray of blood catches him in the face; he laughs and drags his tongue languidly across his lips, erasing the stray droplets. 

Bashir has gone limp, leaning heavily into his bonds. The blood - and there is quite a lot of it – travels in spidery rivulets down Lore’s arm and drips lazily off his elbow. 

“Tell me,” he whispers, knowing full well that the dazed Bashir can still hear every word, “what you think of your little _friends_.”

Bashir pushes aside the thought that says he will never be able to get the blood out of the carpet properly – this is _not_ the time – and whispers,    
“Go to hell.”

“Language, Doctor, language.” Lore twists his fingers, though Bashir’s comment has made him smirk; the doctor howls. “Would you care to try again?”

“I’ve - already given you – my answer,” Bashir says in a lurching whisper, trying desperately to remain conscious; black is eating at the corners of his vision the world as a whole is traveling about him in a haze. He fights – _focus!_ – against the darkness by zeroing in on the pain. Lore’s fingers are buried deep in his flesh; everything is on fire and much too hot and finally Bashir loses his battle against the crushing nausea. The sick misses Lore – _too bad_ – and he finds himself staring weakly at a mess of yellow fluid and blood on the carpet.

"In that case, it would appear that I need to teach you a lesson."

Bashir shudders, and does not notice the flash of steel at the edge of his vision.

~~~

Lore circles like a predator who has found sickly prey, running his fingertips lightly across the back of Bashir’s neck; the sensation shoots immediately down the man’s spine. The android twirls the knife in his other hand in a subconscious pattern; pinky to forefinger to thumb and back again. When he strikes it is always without warning, even with Bashir alert and watching warily. The doctor arcs his spine with every strike of the blade, pressing closer, eyes crinkling even as his mouth tightens against the pain. He never knows where or when the next strike will be, or even if it will come at all. Seconds go by – ten, twenty, twenty-five – and Bashir counts each one of them meticulously, stomach tightening as he slowly passes the thirty-second mark. Lore is still pacing but he has not yet waited this long between strikes. Bashir wonders whether it is over and, with a shudder, wonders what is coming next. 

But no – there is a glint of silver and Bashir hisses. The knife has caught him on the jaw this time, scraping the bone; blood escapes rapidly from the fresh wound and pools at his collar.

“Are you enjoying this, Doctor?” the android whispers. He drags the tip of the blade along Bashir’s jaw, skimming the surface of the skin. The touch is barely noticeable. 

“You’re daft,” Bashir pants, eyes following the path of the blade.

“That is the answer to _a_ question, I’m sure, but not the one to mine,” Lore drawls lazily. He lets the knife fall to Bashir’s collar, and calmly nicks the skin. 

“No!”

“Very well.” Lore slides the knife into Bashir’s ribcage, angling it to avoid the major organs. His captive gives a delightful choked cry; as Lore watches, a shudder passes over his face, rippling just beneath the skin. “I’ve given you a break from your – well, it’s more of an existence than a life, wouldn’t you say? Yes.” He runs a long finger down the side of Bashir’s cheek, watching the skin tremble beneath his light touch. “I think you would agree. You should be grateful, Doctor. I am something that you cannot predict. Isn’t it exciting?”

“Not the word I would use,” Bashir rasps after a pause. He tries to tally the growing number of wounds on his body but becomes confused around six. Was the jaw number seven? Oh, and then there were the wounds caused by Lore’s fingers -  

Lore swipes the back of his hand across the man’s face as though swatting at a fly. The blow cracks Bashir’s nose and partially crushes his eye orbit. The doctor cannot hold back the initial cry of pain and promptly slams his teeth together, willing the sound to die in the back of his throat. He succeeds only in turning the cry into a whimper. 

“Weren’t expecting that, now, were you?” Lore says gleefully as blood flows from the broken nose. He wipes it away, smearing red across the doctor’s cheekbone. “Answer me.”

“No.” The doctor’s voice is little more than a tremor. 

“No, what?” Lore fastens a hand around the man’s throat. Bashir’s eyes widen; he can hear the blood pounding in his ears. 

“No,” he chokes finally, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes with the effort it is taking him to draw breath. “No, I wasn’t expecting it.”

Lore lets out a bark of a laugh – “Isn’t it delightful?” – and then puts his fist through the side of Bashir’s face. The blow rips through his jaw and separates it from his skull; Bashir does not have time to react before a wave of darkness slams over him. 

~~~

The first thing he notices is the sound of an instrument – dermal regenerator, judging by the pitch. The world is a muddle and his vision takes several moments to clear, even as his mind is shouting _WhatisgoingonWhycantIsee_ , and when the quarters finally come into focus he sees the top of a dark head very near his torso. Lore is kneeling before him, tending to a wound, and the sight is so incongruous with his memories that for a moment Bashir wonders wildly whether everything before this moment had simply been a dream. 

 “You tried to die on me, Doctor. How very rude,” Lore says upon noticing his captive conscious.

Bashir blinks; it is all the reply he can muster the strength for. The memories are slowly floating back – the knife, the blows – but a quick assessment tells him that all of his body parts are still properly attached, if slightly sore.

“You can’t keep me locked in here forever, you know. People will notice,” Bashir says, mostly to make sure that he still has the ability to speak. His voice sounds raw. 

“People tend to notice very little, Doctor.” Lore disappears behind the chair; a moment later, the restraints fall away from Bashir’s wrists. “I have already canceled your next two lunches with the tailor and rearranged your office to make it appear as though you spent a good deal of time there this afternoon. Your nurses don’t tend to check on you during the day unless there is a medical emergency, and you having come in for work and left without them knowing is not unusual.” Lore grins. “You see? With the right amount of excuses and planted evidence, a person can disappear for days.”

“Not forever,” Bashir says, head swirling. How did the man know his _work_ habits?

“No,” Lore agrees. “But then, I don’t need forever.” 

There is a movement at Bashir’s feet, and then Lore appears in front of him once more, twirling the well-worn knife. Bashir stares at him, and then cautiously moves his feet. He brings his hands up and stares at them, shoulders protesting madly at the sudden movement after so many hours of being clamped in the same position. There are raised welts at his wrists, angry and red, but apart from that his hands are unmarked.

As though nothing had ever happened. 

“Why?”

An amused smirk played across the android’s face, as though Bashir was not quite getting the joke. He gestured toward the door with the knife. “You are free to go.”

“But –” _That’s it?_ Bashir narrows his eyes. “I _will_ leave.”

Lore merely raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I am sure of that, Doctor. You will run, as you always do.” The crooked smile seems to have attached itself permanently to his face. 

Bashir seizes the chair and, with strength he did not know he still possessed, hurls it at the android. It cuts sharply through the air with a low hum but Lore sidesteps it easily, laughing; it hits the far wall and clatters to the floor. Bashir strikes at the infuriating smile with the hand that had suffered so much already and lands a blow solidly to the side of Lore’s face. The android’s jaw absorbs the blow easily and his head does not move with the impact. It is like striking a wall and Bashir recoils, furious, as tendrils of pain shoot from his knuckles to his elbow. 

“Now, Doctor,” Lore purrs, “surely you can do better than that.” He grabs Bashir’s hands in both of his, strong fingers clamping themselves around the supple wrists and wrenching the hands up. Bashir struggles, landing kicks to areas that would be vulnerable on a human, but only succeeds in stubbing his toe and eliciting yet another chilling laugh from Lore. 

“I thought you wanted to leave, Bashir,” Lore says in a low voice, addressing the man by name for the first time. “This would appear to be counterproductive.”

“They should have deactivated you when they had the chance,” Bashir snaps, continuing to try to pull out of the iron grip. 

“Yes; pity my brother decided to show mercy,” Lore says lightly. His eyes flick to the floor and then back up to Bashir’s face, taking in the whole of the doctor in a single glance. “Then again, perhaps ‘pity’ is _entirely_ the wrong word. After all – you’ve been enjoying this, doctor.”

Bashir freezes. “I haven’t.”

Lore shoves him suddenly and Bashir takes several unsteady steps backwards, slamming into a wall he did not realize they had been standing near. Lore releases his wrists but Bashir does not – cannot – move. The android’s hand strays to the waistband of his trousers, deftly doing away with the fastenings and slipping inside. The other hand trails along Bashir’s shoulder to the sternum, and in one swift move the fingers sink into his flesh and tear him open from chest to navel. Bashir gives a strangled gasp, bucking against Lore’s hand. He seizes him by the shoulders, fingers digging into the pseudo-flesh, as blood spills down his front and coats the android’s hands. 

“Don’t –” Bashir begins, and then stops abruptly. Blood spills down his front

“What, doctor?” Lore whispers, lips grazing his ear as, with a flick of his fingernails, he splits the earlobe neatly in two. Blood springs from it immediately, hot and wet, trailing down the side of Bashir’s neck and spilling over his shoulder. Bashir arches his back, thrusting against the unyielding hand. 

 “You are an anomaly,” Lore hisses. The hand is wandering again, searching for a fresh place to strike. “You do not make _sense_. That bothers you, doesn’t it?” 

Bashir gives s slight jerk of his head, and Lore knows he has touched a nerve. He smiles suddenly. “Yes, I thought as much. What would a doctor like you have use for out here, when you could have had your pick of any post in Starfleet? You’re _bored_ , Doctor. You spend your whole life waiting. Waiting for a challenge, waiting for excitement, waiting for whatever will come that takes your mind off the awful _dullness_. Life is waiting, and waiting is exhausting. Waiting is death. Isn’t that right?”

“No –”

“ _Yes_ ,” Lore hisses, and the hand lashes against the side of Bashir’s face – not hard enough to crush, this time, but with the intention of blackening an eye. Bashir reels against the sting, and his vision is cut in half. “Neither human nor machine, you live in a world that cannot keep pace with you – a world that did not account for you. You can compute tens of times faster than they can; you can run simulations of the outcome of any situation in your head. You hold the text of thousands of books locked in that brain of yours. There is literally _nothing_ that is new to you, and you only pretend otherwise to those around you because it provides some brief amusement.” The hand strokes; Bashir jerks and bites back a gasp. 

“Not true,” he whispers haltingly. “I could lose my job -” 

 “You’ve been _enjoying_ our time together, Bashir,” Lore continues as though the doctor had not spoken. He seizes him suddenly by the throat, applying just enough pressure so that Bashir’s eyes go wide and his breathing becomes ragged. The thumb of his other hand brushes lightly across the tip of Bashir's cock, teasing. “This is unpredictable; this is something new. You can’t _quite_ figure me out, and that fascinates you. For the first time in your life, you can’t predict the outcome of this situation. There are too many variables to calculate the likelihood of your living - ” 

His fingers twitch, further reducing Bashir’s airflow. “ – and your dying. You have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do next. And, to be perfectly honest, neither do I.” He closes off Bashir’s throat entirely, ticking off the seconds in his mind, watching the face of the human before him. Bashir fights for air, bloodshot eyes terrified and darting, and just as his lips begin to fade into blue Lore releases him. 

Bashir sags against the android, gasping, and struggles desperately to clear the black spots from his vision. He wants to look the man in the face; wants to know what is coming. 

“So I ask again, Doctor:  are you bored?” Lore’s hand travels to his belt, coming to rest on the hilt of his knife. 

Bashir opens his eyes and whispers, “No.”

“Tell me to stop, Doctor. Tell me to end this.”

Bashir grunts, but the words will not come.

“Say it and I’ll leave.” Lore brushes Bashir’s cheek with the tip of his knife, and it is almost tender. Bashir imagines what it would be like to have those fingers wrench the skin away from his cheek; what it would be like to have them scrape along his jaw, exposing the bone to the cool air. He wonders what it would be like to have those cool fingers inside of him, tearing him apart piece by piece. 

“No,” he spits out finally. The knife brushes his clavicle almost imperceptibly. Bashir shudders and his skin erupts underneath the touch. He needs to feel more. “No, _don’t_.”

Lore laughs and slashes Bashir’s throat in one quick swipe. He avoids the aorta because it is too quick an end and delights in his captive, who howls and thrusts before darkness steals over him once more.

~~~~

They find him with less than an hour to spare before certain death – or so he finds out later – and Bashir spends two mind-numbing days in the Infirmary. Security grills him for hours about the details of his captivity, and Bashir tolerates it only because he has nothing better to occupy his time. He feigns ignorance and memory loss, throws in a few details that implicate a Nausicaan of dubious repute, and for a while is amused by the fact-checking and follow-up interviews. The story doesn’t provide nearly enough entertainment, though, and Bashir is relieved when the medical staff finally sees fit to release him. He pretends for the first day after that he only tells the story because he does not want to have to answer the more difficult questions that admitting Lore’s presence will bring up, but his mind does not tolerate the lie for very long. 

The doctor rubs his jaw absently, fingers brushing over the raised and red patch of skin where Lore’s knife had cut him. He would not allow his nurses to erase the scar and snapped when they questioned him.

He needs proof that it has not all been a dream; he needs to remember that there was a time when he did not find the world gray and predictable and fucking _useless_. 

 “Fancy a drink, Julian?”

Bashir starts, and turns to see a rather hopeful-looking O’Brien standing behind him. He forces a look of easy-going cheer on his face – _smile, but not too broad. Raise eyebrows_ – and suppresses a sigh. O’Brien is still toting his toolkit _– just came off duty_ – and his fingers sport stains that a scrubbing in the engine room could not erase completely, but that a sonic shower would – _had a fight with Keiko, then; doesn’t want to go home_. 

 “Of course,” Bashir says with a smile, and follows O’Brien down the steps to Quark’s. They will sit at the bar – O’Brien will order a beer – and for twenty minutes they will make small talk about their jobs until O’Brien finally works up the nerve to bring up Keiko. It will be an awkward segue, abrupt, and O’Brien will plow through three more drinks – each helpfully supplied by Quark – throughout the course of his story. Then he will want to play darts, and Bashir will let him win, and afterwards his mood will have improved enough that he’ll stagger home to Keiko and apologize for whatever wrong he has committed, real or imagined. 

“We could even play some darts, later, if you’re feeling up to it,” O’Brien suggests cautiously as they sit at the bar. 

_  
Simple. Predictable.   
_

Bashir manages a smile, says, “I always am,” and begins to tick off the minutes until that time, far in the future, when he can slip off to his own quarters and into the blissful oblivion that is sleep; the only diversion he has left in the world.

 _  
Dull.   
_


End file.
